A Game of Gods
by Nefertam
Summary: Two-hundred years have passed since the War of Five Kings and the subsequent Targaryen take-over of the Seven Kingdoms. Since that bloody time, Westros has enjoyed a relative peace and prosperity. However, when King Josephys Tyrell dies of mysterious circumstances without a living heir, the realm is left in chaos, the Iron Throne ripe for the picking. Which House will rule? SYOC
1. Introduction

The sun always beat harshly in Dorne. Even in the dead of winter, the heat was sweltering. Most of the land was sun-scorched and windswept. There were oases, to be certain, but they were few and far between. It was in one such oasis, however, that a comely youth reclined side-long on a velveteen chair, bracing his head on one hand. Over the site of the oasis, a palace was in the process of construction. The only finished portion of the grand building was an ornate, red limestone portico which shielded the young man from the harsh sun.

The boy was no more than ten-and-six, yet he looked as if he could be older. He had an angular, handsome, feline face with a strong jaw. He had olive skin and lush red lips. His brown mop of wavy hair was loosely brushed to the side. He had a lean, wiry body from years of training with the swiftest combatants in the Free Cities.

His wide blue eyes gleamed with interest as he viewed his workmen constructing the greatest palace Dorne would ever know. The project was his lord father's idea, the current ruling Martell, Prince Mahtka. An ambitious and cunning man, Mahtka desired to ensure to all of Westros that his House would once again be a force to be reckoned with. Establishing his new palace, which was to be called Rosehold, and moving his seat there was the first step in a complex plan Mahtka had undertaken.

The youth who sat under the portico was the lord's eldest son, Prince Masuma. He was far kinder than his father, but his ambition and cunning were just as prominent. Many said the boy was observant, and wise beyond his years. This had earned him the nickname the "Young Cat", after his fathers reputation as the "Old Shadowcat". Of course, no one ever called the boy this to his face.

Masuma's brilliant eyes analyzed the construction, one eyebrow cocked in concentration. Two servants padded into the shaded portico from the sprawling laborer's camp, carrying the prince's lunch. They were followed by the family maester, a thin, balding, aged man named Tarwic. He waited patiently while the servants presented Masuma with platters of red chicken spiced in curry and Dornish peppers, followed by a bowl of blood oranges and a cup of sweet Arbor wine. The young prince politely refused the former and placed the blood oranges on an adjacent table. He then took the cup of wine and dismissed the servants.

"My lord prince," Tarwic greated, scratching his large hooked nose. The Maester had an almost comical look to him, and many of the household staff had affectionately taken to calling him "the Buzzard". His thin neck was perpetually stooped as a result of the many maester's chains he wore, which only added to his bird-like appearance.

"Well met, Maester Tarwic," Masuma said in his purring tenor voice. "How fair you this lovely, scorching afternoon?"

"Well enough. I fear my scalp may be burnt," the older man joked amiably. "I bring news my lord."

"I do pray it is good news."

"It depends on how my lord prince interprets," the maester informed.

"You're killing me with suspense Tarwic," Masuma jested with a smirk. The boy's brilliant blue eyes were full of amusement, twinkling like two sapphires in the sunlight.

"Mad King Josephys is dead, found killed in his sleep. King's Landing feigns mourning, but I doubt anyone besides the Tyrells is truly sad the man is gone."

Prince Masuma considered for a moment, his smile fading. The Mad Tyrell King was dead with no apparent heir...

"Who has claimed the Iron Throne? Josephys had no children, and his wife has been dead for near two years. He has no siblings to speak of; his closest relations are a few cousins and uncles in Highgarden," Masuma thought aloud, his voice taking a sharper edge as he calculated.

"Last I heard, the Grand Maester has yet to read Josephys' will, in which is contained his line of succession. If no heir is named, your lord father is as good as any contender for the Iron Throne," Maester Tarwic confided, his voice dropping to a softer tone near the end.

"This news is troubling, yet... If Dorne can secure the throne, we shall be restored our rightful place amongst the great Houses of Westros. I must think on this. Thank you for your service, good Maester Tarwic. You are dismissed," the young prince said with a contemplative smile.

Musama stood from his plush chair and surveyed the land around the oasis. He straightened his crimson silk and samite tunic and sash, and held his head high. The boy was kind, it was true, but he would not mourn the King's death. As heir apparent to Sunspear and all of Dorne, Masuma had been taught that his enemies did not deserve his compassion, only his wrath. He could save his warm heart for his own people.

As the sun lowered over the soon-to-be Rosehold, Masuma smiled to himself. The Iron Throne may very well be his...

OoOoOoOoOoO

Prince Chrys Stark sat lonely in his tower in Maegor's Holdfast. As son of the Hand, he had been given lavish quarters in the Tower of the Hand, a floor under his father's solar in the Red Keep. Chrys sighed, looking out over King's landing as the moon rose over the ports, and further off, Blackwater bay. The city never really slept, Chrys had learned as soon as he arrived, nearly a fortnight before. Earlier that day, bells had rung incessantly, their dull tolling marking the passing of the late King Josephys.

Chrys' father had been busy all day, arranging the funeral, setting up an investigation into the king's death, preparing the documents for the reading of his will. At first the wolf prince had roamed the castle while his father attended his duties, but he soon grew bored and decided instead to practice his sword work with the Red Keep's Master of Arms. Chrys was a quick learner, and an even quicker fighter. Ever since Arya the Unbroken, at least one Stark of Winterfell learned the water dance of the Free Cities. The prince had wanted to take up the exotic fighting style ever since he heard the old tales of his fierce ancestor. Chrys was given his thin water dancer's sword on his ten-and-seventh naming day, three months prior to coming to King's Landing. Still a novice to the graceful fighting style, Chrys was already a force to be reckoned with. His slim, sinewy frame may have appeared weak, but he had hidden power and speed in his lean muscles.

Chrys swept his shaggy brown bangs out of his silvery-blue eyes and looked dreamily over the city once more. He had a sleek, lupine face with graceful, almost feminine lips and thick, arched eyebrows. He was very comely indeed, and would make a handsome groom for a highborn lady some day.

If, of course, he could get over his terrible shyness. The boy was courteous enough, and amiable amongst friends, but he was a hopeless mess amongst strangers. He stuttered, stammered, and avoided all eye contact. Chrys's lord father, the King in the North, had always tried to get the boy to open up, but no matter of socialization, not feasts or tourneys would cure the boy of his timidity.

"Not in bed, are we?" A deep, regal voice asked. The boy instantly recognized it as his father's. The Hand was a tall man with large broad shoulders. He had a stern, flat face that may have been attractive once, but was now deeply lined and weathered. He had a mane of unruly brown hair and the same grey-blue eyes of his son. He also sported a close cropped beard which he maintained with great care. For all this, he looked a kindly lord, and he was quite honorable, no man could deny.

Known by his honorable title "the King in the North", Benjamin Stark was no more than a glorified lord, albeit a powerful one. In truth he was no real king; the title was strictly ceremonial. More importantly he was the King's Hand. Many said Benjamin was the greatest hand the realm had seen since before Jon Arryns time of old.

"It's too loud here," Chrys complained, gazing back outside. His black doublet ruffled in the early spring breeze. "I miss Winterfell."

"As do I," admitted the Hand. "Fortunately for you, you will only be here for a week more. I must remain here until such time as the new king is crowned, and maybe longer still."

Chrys' father sounded tired, and who was to blame him? From the crack of dawn right up until the man went to sleep, Benjamin was serving the realm and performing his duties. He had left the comforts of Winterfell, his wife, and four children when he was asked to serve in King's Landing. While they visited as for as possible, the Hand would sometimes feel as lonely and burdened as possible. It hadn't helped that over the past few years, King Josephys' sanity was only so-so, until he finally succumbed to madness. When he died, he wasn't ruler, not in truth. He was little more than a figurehead, but a well respected one at that.

"I wish you could come back home with me. The girls miss you, mother too," Chrys said.

"I miss them as well. I miss you all every night, every morning, every hour that I blink my eyes and take breath. But I have duties here. Someday, if the gods are good, I will return to Winterfell and we shall be one family again. But until then, my place is here."

It was with these words that Chrys was comforted enough to go to sleep, despite the ever-present clamor of the royal city.

OoOoOoOoO

In a rather shoddy inn, not too far from Flea Bottom, a man in a dark woolen cloak waited at a candlelit table. His hood was drawn up to conceal his hideously scarred face, though it might once have been beautiful.

"M'lord, I came as soon as I heard. Did you use–" a dark-haired wench began to ask before the man cut her off with a hand.

"I used what was necessary. They will think he died in his sleep, that is all they need to know," the scarred man said, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

"M'lord is pleased then?" The woman asked. She wore the red robes and skirts of the red priests of Asshai.

"As pleased as I am won't to be. Now leave me with your payment, red whore," the man snarled, handing over a bag of gold dragons.

The woman gave him a dirty look, but made on her merry way ten dragons richer.

It made no longer mattered the cost. The hooded man only desired one thing: for Westros to burn.

**XxXxXxXxXxXxXx**

**So how was that for an opening chapter? I just finished "A Storm of Swords" and I had an awesome idea for an SYOC. Now I will say that I also have been feverishly working on "Between Now and Forever" and "The Secret War", my other SYOCs and I will be updating them soon so please check them out. Now then for this story: set 200 years after the War of Five Kings, the realm endured centuries of peace under Targaryen, then Tyrell rule. All of the Houses which existed during the War of Five Kings exist now, however the Greyjoys are no longer considered a great House, and instead the Targaryens have been restored. Daenarys was lifted of her barren curse and was given children after she claimed the Iron Throne, therefore restoring the Targaryen rule. After a few decades, the Tyrells wed into the royal family. War may be brewing on the horizon and new and old houses must band together or die fighting. Along with the Seven, the old gods, the Lord of Light, and the drowned god, cults to the Dothraki horse gods and the Lord of Harmony have sprung up in Westros as a result of Dany's conquest. The SYOC form will be on my profile for characters, households, and Houses, of you should choose to create and original House for your characters.**

**OC Form**

**Name:**

**Titles/Nicknames:**

**Age:**

**Gender:**

**House (if any):**

**Social Status (Lord, lady, commoner, farmer, etc):**

**Appearance: **

**Personality:**

**Backstory:**

**Clothing (at least three sets):**

**Armor (if any. Remember, warrior women are a strange sight in Westros):**

**Weapons:**

**Religion:**

**Region of habitation:**

**Motives (Iron Throne? Protecting a loved one? Remaining neutral? Etc):**

**House Form**

**House Name:**

**Colors:**

**Words:**

**General characteristics of members (physical and personality):**

**Members (provide small descriptions for each member):**

**Pledged to (One of the Great Houses):**

**Hold:**

**How Westros views them:**

**Motive:**

**Banner:**


	2. Chrys

Septa Fallacia scanned the crowd from the steps of the Sept of Baelor with red-brown eyes, a deep fire smoldering within them.

"The Seven have punished this sinful, wretched land! The King is dead; a call to remind us of our iniquity! Repent, O wicked generation! Beseech the Mother for mercy, lest we all be judged harshly by the Father!" the young woman shrieked.

Chrys found her fascinating, as did many of the residents of King's Landing. He also found her frightening. She spoke harshly, relentlessly condemning the sins of her flock. Yet even so, she was popular amongst highborns and street rats alike, so much so that she was a top candidate for High Septon. Well, High Septa in her case.

Chrys preferred the gods of his home to the strange, strict ways of the Seven-faced God. The Old Gods of the Forest did not condemn in furious voices. They consoled on the breath of the wind, caressed in the gentle drop of rain.

"Repent unworthy people, and bask in the holy light of the Seven-in-One! Mother, grant them mer-"

"The night is dark and full of terrors!" A woman shouted shouted from the assembled crowd, cutting Fallacia off. The septa stared into the mass with predatory anger, her eyes the eyes of a hawk.

"What...what heretic spoke?"

"Over here, blessed septa!" A man called above the crowd and pointed to a hooded woman in a red cloak.

"Why don't you come and blaspheme to my face?" Fallacia called.

The woman in red pushed through the crowd. Her footsteps could be heard in the absolute silence and still. Her hooded crimson cloak hid her face, but her graceful footsteps and pleasing frame gave her an air of dangerous beauty. She climbed the pristine steps of the Sept until she stood only two steps below Septa Fallacia. Then she turned and faced the crowd and lowered her hood.

The white-blonde tumble of hair and pale flesh elicited a gasp from the crowd. The woman was only a little more than a girl, and her countenance was immediately recognizable. She was a Targaryen, namely Lady Visaenya Targaryen. A direct descendant of Queen Daenerys, Visaenya was beautiful beyond compare. Her wide violet eyes and full red lips were worthy of song, and betrayed her youth besides. For all her looks, it was well known that Visaenya was a priestess of The Lord of Light, now one of the largest cults in Westros.

"R'hllor is the only true and good god. Your 'Seven' are false idols, demons. The only way to be saved is by the light of the Lord," Visaenya proclaimed in her high, effulgent voice.

"Your 'god' is a pagan myth, nothing more. The Mother protects us, the Crone guides us, and when we die, the Stranger will lead us to the worlds beyond. No 'Lord of Light' will save anyone," Fallacia retorted.

"Let it be known, here and now. A day shall come when only those who bask in the light of the Lord shall be saved from the darkness. Those who stand with me shall not perish. Those who worship the Seven shall be fed to the flames of R'hllor himself!" Visaenya proclaimed. Then she drew up her hood, lifted her red silken gown, and padded down the steps and back through the crowd.

"May the Father judge you harshly, red witch!" Fallacia shouted to her back. Before anything else could be said, the bells of Baelor's Sept rang for the midday service. Septa Fallacia bid her flock a farewell before rushing up into the sept, her ceremonial skirts swishing.

A cold wind swept through the street and Chrys drew his black woolen cloak a little tighter around his slender frame. He wore a light satin tunic of grey, embroidered on the back with the direwolf, House Stark's insignia. He watched the crowd disperse for a while, then turned to head back to the Red Keep.

Chrys didn't trust any of the red priests of R'hllor. They were abhorred in the North, where not even the Seven had a strong prescence. To the Northmen, followers of the Lord of Light possessed foul and unnatural magics.

The Red Keep was bustling with lordlings, ladies, and knights. They were all gathered to hear King Josephys' will; or rather to hear who would inherit the Iron Throne. Chrys pushed past the nobility in their silk and satin finery, edging his way to the Great Hall, where he knew he would find his father. The further into the Keep he travelled, the higher status of the nobility he passed. Inside the Great Hall, the throne room of the king, the most wealthy and powerful lords argued in loud voices, the sound echoing cacophonously in the high ceiling.

Benjamin Stark stood before the Iron Throne on a raised dais, flanked on one side by the Grand Maester, Maester Vetus, on the other by the captain of the gold cloaks, a strong, hard younger man with a square jaw and cold eyes. He had a jagged scar across his left cheek. Lord Stark raised his arms above his head to silence the squabbling lords.

"My lords and ladies, please silence yourselves!" Chrys' father called in his low, gruff voice.

Before long the Great Hall was so silent that Chrys could hear the ruffling of clothing and sniffles of sick lords.

"Maester Vetus, if you could please read the will," Lord Stark said.

The Grand Maester broke a seal on a roll of fresh parchment. He cleared his throat, then began to unravel the scroll, which made a crisp crinkling noise.

The look on his face was one of abject shock.

"My l-lord..." The wizened maester stammered out. "There's n-nothing written here except 'I leave my throne for the buzzards'. I-I don't understand..."

A great clamor erupted in the Great Hall, and arguments broke out everywhere. Lord Stark tried to silence the outbreak, but it was no use. Chrys sighed and pushed through the crowd. The two white-cloaked Kingsguard at the exit to the Hall parted for the boy so he could leave.

It seemed days later when Lord Stark finally found his son amidst the books of the royal library. In the hours since the reading of the will, Chrys had read an entire history of House Blackstark, two hymnals of the Seven, and a bestiary of animals in Westros and the Free Cities.

"Get your things. We are leaving," Benjamin commanded.

"What?" Chrys asked, lifting his head from his book.

"My guards killed two assassins in my quarters. We aren't safe here, not with the king dead and the realm in chaos. Pack as quickly as possible, we haven't much time," Benjamin commanded.

Chrys nodded and made for his chambers. Once there he commanded his servants to help him pack. The two men silently filled trunks with clothing, wrapped books, and carried crates out of the room. Chrys grabbed his blade, a thin, light sword fit for a water dancer. He put his cloak back on, then rushed into the hallway to find his father.

Outside the door to his father's quarters stood Jon Blackstark, Benjamin's ward and squire. He was of a close age to Chrys, and the two were close friends.

"How goes it Jon?" Chrys asked amiably.

"Well enough, I suppose. Not anything too exciting happening. Unless you count fleeing King's Landing..." Jon jested.

"Shush you big oaf! The walls have ears!" Chrys feigned anger, although he couldn't muffle a laugh. "If you will let me pass, I must see my lord father."

Jon nodded and patted Chrys' shoulder, letting him through. Chrys pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the Hand's solar.

"Father?" Chrys called. He heard noise coming from the floor above him, Lord Stark's. He crossed the room to the cold stone stairs and ascended to the living quarters. At the top, the door was ajar.

Benjamin Stark stood looking out his window, a half-packed trunk open on his bed.

"Father..." Chrys said in a soft voice.

Lord Stark's body fell to the ground, his throat opened with blood spilling to the floor. A man dressed in all black stood where Benjamin had, his knife dripping with crimson fluid.

Chrys drew his blade and slowly backed out of the room and down the steps. From there he ran out into the solar.

"Jon! Quickly, open the door! Jon-" Chrys called to no avail. Jon's corpse lay in the open doorway, his sword flung next to him. His killer was nowhere in sight, but Chrys took caution nonetheless. He ran past Jon and down the hallway, making for some exit.

"M'lord, what's the matter?" One of Chrys' father's servants asked as he made his flight toward the stables.

"We must leave...now. Gather...the others," Chrys said between breaths.

Already servants and northern warriors filled the stables, packing their belongings for the long journey north.

"Quickly now! We must leave!" Chrys called to those packing.

"Where is Lord Stark?" One of the soldiers called.

"Dead. It isn't safe for us here anymore. We must leave," Chrys said.

"Shouldn't we find his killer?" The soldier asked.

"My father knew it wouldn't be safe here. We were leaving to escape the danger, and now it has found us. If we do not leave soon, we may all be lost," Chrys said in a tone that meant no more arguing.

The Northmen packed fairly quickly, and before long a large column of mounted warriors, knights, and servants marched towards the King's Gate. The captain of Lord Stark's honor guard, a young knight by the name of Galahad Frostcloak, rode his dappled palfrey next to Chrys' own white stallion.

"M'lord, we should have gone after the assassin. We have more than enough men-"

"Ser Galahad, I'd prefer to mourn in silence. I've lost a father and a friend today, and the road ahead will prove to be both trying and tiring," Chrys said and rode ahead of the knight. He already was tired, and on the brink of tears. Chrys had known Jon Blackstark since he was little more than a toddler. The large boy had been sent by his father to study and train with the Starks, and as he grew to be a muscular, strong young man, Lord Stark had taken him as squire. Chrys always found his aloof personality and ironic sense of humor quite amusing, but now he lay dead with his father.

A buzzing and thrumming noise snapped Chrys out of his thoughts.

"Archers!" One panicked soldier called out. An arrow took I'm in the chest.

"Where are they?"

"Right above us! Find cover!"

"It's in my leg! Oh gods it burns!"

Chrys' own horse was shot in the flank, driving it into a frightened haze. It charged down the street, past wounded and fighting Northmen. Finally an arrow ended the beast's misery. Chrys bonded off his saddle before his leg could be pinned to the ground, and he landed roughly in the dirt. He ran behind the cover of a crate. The King's Gate was only a few hundred paces away, yet he knew that with the threat of archers he wouldn't be able to make it far. Northern archers fired back at their attackers, and succeeded in hitting a few. Their ambushes wore the golden cloaks of the City Watch.

"How many are they?" Chrys called out.

"Four now... maybe five!" Galahad responded.

"I got one!" One of the Northmen called.

Before long the arrows stopped raining down and the survivors rounded back up. Only two lie dead and one wounded badly. Everyone else appeared unscathed.

"To the gate!" Galahad ordered.

Once outside the city walls, the group slowed their pace. Many of the horses had not been as fortunate as their riders, nearly half of the already scarce mounts had been killed. One of the mounted soldiers offered Chrys his gelding, which he was more than obliged to take.

At sunset the group of around fifty guards and eight servants settled at an inn further down the kingsroad. Chrys was given the loft room for bed, a humble room with a straw-filled bed and a large window. The boy lay face-up on his bed and then, only then, did he let his tears fall.

**XxXxXxXxXxXx**

**How'd you guys enjoy the chapter? Who do you think sent the assassins? If you have critiques, please feel free to tell me! The submission are still open, but with restrictions: I need people older than twenty, as well as commoners. I also have received no Baratheons or their affiliates, so if you are interested, please abide by these rules!**


	3. Aelyx

Aelyx Targaryen sat in Aegon's Garden amidst boggy trees and wild roses. He strummed a cherrywood lute and sang in a light, smooth voice.

"Gentle Mother, font of mercy,

Save our sons from war we pray.

Stay the swords and stay

The arrows,

Let them know a better day,"

Aelyx's voice carried through the trees, echoing ethereally, mixing with the soft rumble of waves on the shore of Dragonstone.

The lordling swept pale silvery hair from his forehead out of his eyes. He bore the telltale traits of the most Targaryens: platinum hair, violet eyes, fair skin. He had an almost statuesque beauty such that even carved marble could not do justice to. When Aelyx finished his hymn, his brother and sister applauded him.

Daerys was indeed Aelyx's brother and one of the triplets, but he bore little resemblance. His hair was dark, almost pitch black, and his eyes were more grey than lilac, traits inherited from their lady mother, a Tyrell by blood. He was also far thicker and more chiseled of muscle than Aelyx, who had a wiry musculature himself. Daerys was more the warrior, not to mention the cherished of his father.

The third part of the triplets was Alysya, a slim beautiful girl who bore more resemblance to Aelyx than Daenerys. She had beautiful snow-white hair which fell in light ringlets about her comely face. Her lips were red and lush, her face youthful and stunning. Her eyes were an astonishing maroon, the color of grapes and deep, sweet wine.

"When you sing, I'm pretty sure the gargoyles want to cover their ears!" Daerys jested. Alysya smacked his arm lightly, her silky blue dress lifting in the light breeze.

"You sing beautifully brother. I just wish father would let you sing at court, the ladies would love it so," the girl praised.

"If only I would have that freedom. Father never did approve of music," Aelyx mused aloud. His voice was soft and calm, a stark contrast to his siblings' excited, gibbering tones.

"I wish Visaenya hadn't gone away. She would have loved to hear your voice," Alysya as aid with a pretty pout.

Visaenya had gone to King's Landing to preach about her Red God. None of her siblings understood her fervor about her religion, especially considering they were all raised in the Faith of the Seven. It seemed Visaenya had converted over night, after a trip into town. Before long, she was ordained as a Red Priestess, and from there she was sent to spread the teachings of R'hllor to the Seven Kingdoms, and beyond.

Despite their different theologies, the triplets loved Visaenya. She always had been a kind and gentle soul, albeit stubborn.

"I know I miss Visaenya too. There is no maid fairer on all of Dragonstone. Where am I to find a pretty woman to bed?" A voice joked from deeper in the woods.

Garett Greyjoy was a well-built, tall boy of the same age as the triplets, sixteen. Their similarities ended there. Garett was nearly as muscular as Daerys, his hair dark and long compared to the short cuts of the Targaryen boys. His green eyes almost shone with luminous glee and energy. He had light stubble across his jaw whereas the brothers were clean shaven.

"You filthy pigson," Daerys amusedly said, approaching his best friend.

"It's true," Garett protested.

"How fair you this lovely afternoon?" Alysya asked, rising from her seated position in the grass.

"Lovely? On this dingy rock? I think not. Bleak is a word more apt," Garett said with a smile.

Garett Greyjoy had been sent to Dragonstone as a ward when he was no more than nine. His older brother had been killed during a Greyjoy rebellion, and Garett had been taken to thwart Greyjoy influence in Westros. He was to be raised under Targaryen care until such a time as they saw fit for him to return to the Iron Islands.

"At least it isn't raining. I can't stand the rain," Alysya complained, toying with one strand of her hair.

"What are you all doing in the garden here anyways? We have our studies in only an hour or so," Garett said.

"We were listening to Aelyx sing. Father doesn't permit him to do so in the castle. He says it's a womanly pursuit and useless besides," Alysya responded.

"Is it not? You can not win a war with song or kill a man with voice," Garett stated.

Aelyx never truly liked Garett Greyjoy. He was rowdy and sarcastic, too much so for Aelyx's taste. However, he was Daerys' closest companion, so Aelyx tolerated his presence when necessary.

"I find that music calms and soothes, and who would remember a battle if a song had not been sung of it first?" Aelyx said.

"You can keep your songs. I'll stick to training with sword and bow, if it please you," Garett said with a mocking bow.

Alysya and Daerys laughed, while Aelyx feigned a chuckle. He was seething on the inside.

"I heard the servants were preparing pudding for tonight's dinner. What say we make sure the batch isn't poisoned?" Garett suggested.

Besides being obnoxiously witty, Garett was always willing to end up in trouble. Alysya and Daerys never put up a strong argument against the ward, but Aelyx tried to be the voice of reason when he could.

"How do you think my father would react if he found out we stole pudding from the cooks?" Aelyx questioned, raising a pale eyebrow.

"Your father never need know," Garett Greyjoy said mischievously.

"Your father never need know what?" A voice asked through the trees.

Lord Targaryen could be frightening at his worst, even terrifying. Aelyx had even taken to hiding when his father was angered for fear of facing his wrath. He did not seem angry right now, thankfully. Instead he seemed curiously amused.

"Nothing, father," Daerys said suspiciously.

"Are you certain? I heard talk of raiding the kitchen for pudding."

Daerys blushed a shade of red and Alysya giggled.

"Is it not time for the afternoon studies?" Lord Baelor II Targaryen questioned.

"Yes father," Alysya and Daerys chorused at once.

"Go on then. Except for you Aelyx," Lord Targaryen commanded.

"Do you know why I disapprove of your interest in music?" Baelor asked.

"You think it is womanly," Aelyx stated bluntly, yet he averted his father's gaze.

"I do not think it womanly. I think that if you devote all of your time to it, you will not survive in the real world. There are people out there who would do you harm. Do not forget that. If you or your brother or either of your sisters were hurt... I don't know what I would do with myself. You must be strong, and more you must be prepared," Baelor Targaryen said. He gave a heavy sigh before continuing.

"I will permit you to continue this pursuit if you promise to train twice as long with the master at arms each day."

"Yes! I mean, thank you father. I will become a better fighter than the Sword of Dawn," Aelyx declared in delight.

"Very good. Now run to your studies, or you will be late," Baelor said.

As Aelyx traversed through the castle, he passed the Chamber of the Painted Table, the war room of Dragonstone, dominated by a large painted table, depicting the landscape of Westros in stunning detail, even down to the ridges of mountain ranges. A conversation streamed steadily out of the half opened doors.

"-will be ready to sail on the morrow. Once we have made it to the mouth of Blackwater Bay, we will unload for the mounted assault. If the gods are good, we will face no resistance and the city will be ours," a stern voice said. Aelyx assumed it was Dragonstone's castellan, Friedrick Sunglass.

"And what of the Tyrell loyalists? And the Small Court?" A woman's voice asked.

"Any opposition will be met with swift retribution. Any members of the King's council who prove unfaithful or even slightly rebellious shall be apprehended and replaced. The Targaryens are the rightful rulers of Westeros, as they always have been. Let us see to it that they are seated on the Iron Throne once more," Ser Friedrick Sunglass said.

The sound of footsteps drew near the door, so Aelyx hurried off to his lessons, pretending to be none the wiser. Westeros might soon be on the brink of a Second Targaryen Conquest.

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**So the plot deepens... How was this chapter? It was a little short, admittedly, but I only meant to introduce the current generation of Targaryens, as well as their ward, Garett Greyjoy, submitted by Rougeification. Of you have any questions, comments, or critiques, please review or message me. Also I would like to say that I will be closing submissions temporarily after this chapter, so be sure to send in old people! Well, older than twenty. Also, I've received no men of the Night's Watch and I have only received one commoner and one knight, so more of those would be appreciated! I would also like to point out that House Blackstark and Jon Blackstark were both creations of The Black Knight. Thanks!**


	4. Masuma

Prince Masuma Martell sat atop a creamy palfrey, his honor guard flanking him to the left and right. His long russet linen tunic fluttered in the breeze. He swept his bangs out of his eyes, smoothing his hair back against the desert breeze. He wore no helmet, Masuma found it constricted his vision and slowed him down. He wore very little armor in general, only a simple scaled chest plate with embedded with coper disks and garnets. Around his nose, mouth, and neck was draped a wispy scarf of crimson silk. His sapphire eyes scanned the windswept landscape, dust billowing on the sides of the road.

"We are making good time, my prince," an old knight, Ser Deros Yronwood said. He sat on a muscled courser, armored in a tall bronze helm and a coat of scaled armor. He was sunburnt and weathered, with greying black hair and a close cropped beard. On the crook of his left arm rested the tall shimmering banner of House Martell, a sun and spear on an auburn feild.

"I only pray we make Blackmont by dusk for the rendezvous," Prince Masuma responded, his voice muffled by thin cloth, his blue eyes squinting in the harsh sunlight.

"I could use a bed and a strong drink. I tire of camping in this blasted desert," said the young man to his right.

Another knight, this man was the most recent incarnation of the Sword of the Morning, Icarys Dayne. An attractive youth little older than twenty, Icarys had the wavy pale hair and lilac eyes of his House. He had an angular, handsome face and a slim, graceful body armored in lightweight leathers bolstered with copper disks. Like his prince, he wore no helmet, his chin-length hair ruffling in the breeze. It was a wonder he wasn't charred in the sweltering heat of midday.

The column pressed on, passing dunes and cliffs. Besides Masuma's guardsmen, the party consisted of a score of mounted Dornish spearmen as well as near a hundred archers on foot. Each man wore a uniform pointed bronze helm wrapped in brightly colored linen, as well as scaled coats of copper and bronze. Each shield carried bore the sun and spear of House Martell, a terrifying sight on the field of battle. It was battle they sought.

As the sun began to set beyond the shimmering horizon, Masuma could make out his father's camp a mile or two ahead. Smoke rose from cookfires and the sounds of camp could be heard even from that distance. As the party drew closer, they could make out the bright colors of tents and the banners of the Dornish Houses: the crowned skull of Manwoody, the vulture of Blackmont, the falling star and sword of Dayne. The riot of colors and sounds were almost overwhelming. In the middle of the camp, surrounded by smaller tents, lay the great silken pavilion of Prince Matkha, Lord Paramount of Dorne.

Masuma dismounted from his palfrey and handed the reigns to a nearby servant. He then brushed the dirt off his tunic and stepped into his father's grand tent, followed by Icarys Dayne and Deros Yronwood.

The air inside the silk behemoth was hot and musky, heavy with the scent of incense and spices. The floor was entirely covered in soft mats, as such to keep the dust outside. To Masuma's right, behind a paper screen, was Prince Matkha's bed. A small group of knights surrounded a wooden table spread with maps and other parchments. Matkha Martell stood in their midst pointing at the map and strategizing in a low voice.

Masuma's father was a middle aged man with thick greying black hair and a pointed beard. His narrow eyes and sharp nose had not been passed to his son, but his olive skin and lean frame had been. Matkha was armored in a long coat of polished bronze disks and teal silk embroidered with maroon fringe.

When he caught sight of his son, Matkha stopped mid-speech and inclined his head.

"Masuma. Greetings. I trust your ride wasn't too harsh?" Matkha Martell asked, smiling at his son.

"Dry and hot perhaps, but nothing I couldn't handle. I bring a score of mounted warriors, as well as archers on foot, from the Water Gardens. What have we here?" Masuma asked.

"The combined forces of House Martell and all of our sworn men," Prince Matkha said nonchalantly.

Masuma had known the camps had been enormous, but he hadn't expected the aid of every Dornish noble House.

"We make for the Reach on the morrow. If we meet no Tyrell resistance, we will bypass Highgarden and her bannermen. If we can, we will make for King's Landing first, and worry about opposition later. By the months end, House Martell will be the ruling House of Westeros," Matkha Martell said triumphantly.

When night had finally fallen over the expansive camp, Masuma and his companions supped in the prince's own tent. Smaller than his fathers, yet still spacious, Masuma's tent was made of a shimmering beige silk and was roomy enough for a bed, a small ornate dining table with four stools, a dresser, and a reclining chair.

"When you said we would be meeting your father at Blackmont, I had assumed we would be staying at Blackmont, not in another camp," Icarys complained, though it was more jest.

"Once we take King's Landing, we shan't live in such mean conditions ever again," Masuma said, then sipped Dornish red from a slim silver flute.

"I'm certain the rest of Westeros will welcome us with open arms," Icarys said sarcastically. He knew better than most; while he was well loved and respected amongst Dornishmen, the rest of the world viewed the Sword of Morning as an uncouth womanizer and heavy drinker. Sure, he was comely and charming, but he had little love amongst foreigners.

"Oh, certainly! They shall drape Martell banners from their towers and throw as a grand feast!" Ser Yronwood declared, well into his cups. He held a rough tankard in one hand, which the servants graciously refilled after his every swig.

"To King's Landing!"

"To Conquest!" Icarys cheered.

"To Dorne!" Masuma added, standing and smiling brilliantly.

They met resistance first at Horn Hill. The lord of the castle, Lord Oswald Tarly, had enlisted the aid of the sell-sword captain known as the Bloody Rose, Gerralt Flowers. A maester turned mercenary, Gerralt was as intelligent as he was ruthless. A supposed bastard son of some lord in the Reach and a common whore, Gerralt had earned the respect of Westeros and the Free Cities on the battlefield.

Lord Oswald Tarly was no stranger to battle either, having aided in defeating House Greyjoy in their Second Rebellion. A renowned duelist and strategist, even his men-at-arms were fearless and organized.

They would be no match for the might of the united Dornish houses, but a bloody battle was in their future.

Prince Masuma rode his silk skirted palfrey. The young man himself wore his light scaled upper-chest armor sewn with bronze disks and encrusted with gleaming garnets, as well as leather bracers and grieves. Underneath of his protection Masuma wore a creamy rose tunic of wispy linen and light trousers of dark cotton. About his head and face was strewn a maroon veil bound by a golden circlet and embroidered with sprawling patterns like clinging vines. Only his unnatural, feline sapphire eyes could be seen, analyzing the columns and blocks of opposing soldiers. The huntsman of Tarly waved on a green field as the evenly regimented defenders stood and waited.

Prince Matkha had tried to negotiate safe passage the day before, attempting both honesty and bribery, but old Oswald Tarly was no fool. He had known such a large Martell force could only be bound for King's Landing. Lord Tarly claimed the Throne belonged to House Tyrell, this promptly ending any hope of peace. It mattered not, at least not to Masuma. Everyone knew Oswald Tarly made a grave mistake, and the Dornishmen would not be slighted.

"Masuma! Order your archers to commence firing," his father commanded from his large black charger, a heavily muscled warhorse draped in Martell heraldry.

Masuma urged his horse into a steady trot back to his own forces, some hundred and fifty desert bowman. The boy prince grinned slightly beneath his veil, beaming at the prospect of an easy battle.

"Archers, at the ready!" Masuma ordered. Row upon row of archers strung their arrows and drew back to their cheeks in a fluid, uniform movement.

"Aim... Fire!" The prince ordered.

A volley of brightly fletched arrows crossed over the sun like a flock of birds, before swiftly descending on their targets below. The Tarly men that were affected by the fire raised their shields, though only few were substantially protected. Already, the bodies of the wounded and dead lay strewn across the front lines of the Tarly soldiers.

"Fire at will!" Masuma commanded.

The opposing forces began advancing, a tide of men sweeping across the valley to reach the high ground upon which the Martells were situated. The enemy archers were too far out of range to return fire, Masuma observed. Prince Matkha strode in front of his column and gave a signal. Two score of Dornish spearmen clanged their weapons against their tarnished shields, then began their descent down the steep hill towards their adversaries. Both sides let out deep throated cries, shouts of battle and rage.

It would be a long day

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**How'd you guys like it? I love House Martell and I really wanted to capture aspects of old Arabic and Persian military and culture as these are both influential to Dorne. Icarys is Kingslayer01's OC, and one of my favorites. Gerralt is the creation of Child-of-R'lyeh, another great OC who we will be seeing a lot more of later on. Please review and critique, and after the next chapter, submissions will be officially closed! Thanks.**


	5. Visaenya

The windows of the Great Sept of Baelor let in the most beautiful light, like a million tiny rainbows dancing through the air to where they rested in pools on the polished floor. To Visaenya, the air of beauty was just a facade, a trick to lead the masses to follow a false god like moths to a flame. Well, Visaenya thought, it is a flame they shall have.

Dressed in a supple hooded crimson cloak and a billowing scarlet dress, the priestess of the Fire God hid in one of the few shadows in the Sept, waiting for her contact to arrive. Her face was hidden by her hood, and none of the worshipers or septons payed her heed.

Before long, she spotted the boy she had been waiting for. Dressed in a black doublet and tan trousers, the young man didn't look like much of a thief, much less a thief in charge of most of the organized crime in Flea Bottom.

"Rotto," Visaenya greeted, her voice a delicate purr.

"Priestess," the boy returned. "You have the money?"

"Of course. Are your people in place?"

"If it please you," the boy responded, nodding his head slightly. His dark hair bobbed in its tied-back bun.

"Very good. Let us take our leave then. I wouldn't want to be stuck in here when the fun begins," Visaenya laughed. She then took a small brown pouch from the folds of her cloak. The bag clinked with the promise of payment.

"I've always loved the sound of dragons," Rotto commented, snatching the coin purse.

"As have I. Although I must say that the dragons I seek are much more... volatile... than your little pieces of gold," the priestess remarked as the pair descended the stairs of the Great Sept. "Give your men the signal, Rotto Stone."

Rotto let out a little whistle-chirp. Visaenya just caught glimpse of a man sneaking around the corner of the temple. Soon enough, shouting could be heard streaming from inside Baelor's Sept.

"How exactly did your men get ahold of wildfire, Rotto?" Visaenya inquired.

"Secret of the trade, m'lady. I can tell you this, it wasn't easy to acquire," Rotto said, then he smiled a wide smile on his young, stumbled face. "However, anything can be done for the right price."

Just then, green flames burst from the windows of the holy site. Smoke billowed from every opening, and the screams of the trapped and dying filled the air like a terrible chorus. Visaenya couldn't help but grin herself. The Lord of Light would be smiling down on this sacrifice. It was the greatest victory indeed.

"Your service her has been greatly appreciated Rotto. I pray the Lord will have us meet again," the priestess said, then shifted into the crowd of fleeing commoners just as the city guard, the Goldcloaks, arrived. Rotto himself followed the exodus of people from the Great Sept, melting away into the crowd as the temple behind burned to cinders.

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Hello readers! This was just a quick little update to let you know that this story is still active. I wanted also to introduce Rotto Stone as he will become integral later in the story. He was submitted by Rougeification, and he is a very intriguing character indeed! Please critique and review!


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